


Treat Him Right

by kayabiter



Category: Cursed (TV 2020)
Genre: Courting Rituals, Fluff and Humor, Injury, Inspired by Poetry, Light Angst, M/M, Magic, Meddling, Misunderstandings, Poison, Sarcasm, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:20:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26466310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayabiter/pseuds/kayabiter
Summary: Gawain's preferred head-on approach doesn't seem to work when it comes to chasing the former Weeping Monk, so he asks Pym for help. That goes about as well as you can imagine - but perhaps the knight still stands a chance.
Relationships: Gawain | The Green Knight/The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 108





	Treat Him Right

“I think,” Pym suggested slowly, a befuddled expression on her face, “you might need to be a tiny bit more straightforward.”

“You don't say,” Gawain breathed out, hands folded over his head as they watched in silence how Lancelot lunged and twisted, cutting through the air with deadly precision. 

“All I did,” the knight whispered hotly, so that only the healer would hear, even though there was no one else in the tent, “is tell him — after I’d finally managed to catch him unaware — that he looked good with my sword at his neck.”

“And he saw it as an insult to his skills.”

“Yes! How much more straightforward can it get?!”

The girl hummed, deep in thought, as they both watched — Pym with detached appreciation, Gawain with forlorn misery — as the Ashman annihilated every single warrior who was foolish enough to dare an attack. At a particularly vicious slash, Pym let out a strangled gasp and her eyes flitted to Gawain, just as the man winced and then abruptly pushed off the table. 

“I give up,” he announced, a picture of dejection — slumped shoulders, check, distraught face, check, and had he just torn out a couple of hairs?.. Yes, he had. Pym was already uneasy at seeing her friend so defeated — Hidden knew he did not wear that look often — but she had to draw the line on any damage done to his luscious locks. They were one of the few sacred things the Fey had managed to keep in the midst of all the calamities, and though she had never felt particularly passionate about cultural legacy, there was a first time for everything. 

“Wait,” she said quickly, before the man could storm off to the woods — to what was known among the camp dwellers as The Tiny Clearing of Misery. All the Fey knew of the place but pretended not to. In the beginning, the scouts had reported a possible sighting of an exceedingly enraged bear, to which Gawain had flushed and gave a half-hearted promise to look into it. However, the bear kept visiting the clearing, suspiciously more often after the council meetings; so Fey gave it a wide, respectful berth, willing to turn a blind eye on their beloved commander ways of letting the steam out. 

“Wait,” she repeated as Gawain slowed, and then she had to think of something quickly before he lost his patience and left, so Pym said the first thing that came to her mind. “You need to court him properly.”

“What do you mean by that?” Gawain squinted, perplexed. 

Frankly, Pym could relate to his confusion, having no idea herself of what she meant. Most of the time, there was as much propriety to the camp as one would expect of a brothel on fire — but maybe, she realised, that was the exact reason for their current deplorable situation. 

“Perhaps, he needs it to be more… Traditional,” she finally found the word, and from there, it was as if inspiration gave her wings, turning the halting speech into a mighty wave. Ignoring Gawain's dubious look, she continued, sounding more passionate and confident with every word. "He is a rather conservative person, wouldn't you say? One might even say..." there was a loud clang of steel and then a low growl; Pym jumped a bit and Gawain's eyes flickered to the field, but the girl pushed through and finished, "... a repressed one". 

“Well, I suppose so,” Gawain said, folding his arms, an unconvinced frown still on his face — but he turned to face her fully, and Pym _knew_ he was hooked. 

"Lancelot is used to traditions and symbolism — just remember how he had a bit too much to drink for Letha night. He gushed about that cross guy and how you two are basically the same for an hour, at least."

Seeing the knight's eyes glaze over at the terrible memory, she caught herself and coughed in her fist before cutting it straight to business. "He needs someone to speak his language, to profess their feelings in a form suitable for his expectations, the one he would recognise. But you need to be subtle — if he knows it’s you, he would probably feel pressured into accepting, you know how he gets. So, you must build up his anticipation and see how he reacts to the idea."

"When did you learn how to speak like that,” Gawain muttered, but his eyes, as they followed Lancelot again, had that familiar calculating gleam in them that made Pym's heart rejoice. 

She still punched him on the arm and immediately gasped, clutching her fist.

"Why do you need to drag that heap of steel everywhere,” she whimpered, while the flustered knight sputtered and wrapped his huge palms around her tiny hand, pulling it closer to assess the damage. She allowed it graciously, even though her knuckles burnt like hell. 

"It's armour, Pym, I would be dead a dozen times over if I didn't wear at all times."

"Do you take it off when you sleep, at least?" she inquired suspiciously, and after the man did not immediately answer, waved her hand in exasperation. "Out, out — go court your murderous sweetheart."

Gawain nodded and hurried out of the tent, but almost immediately returned. 

"Not a sweetheart — yet — but what do you think is a good place to start?"

With hands on her hips, Pym scowled fiercely, but then her eyes caught on a bunch of chamomile hanging from one of the beams. 

"Flowers," she said in a stroke of brilliance, "if not sure in the matters of heart, one better begin with flowers". 

With hope evident in his face and a renewed spring in his step, Gawain pressed a quick kiss to her cheek and took off. The redhead rubbed at the skin, sighed wistfully, and turned around to chop at something, studiously ignoring the blush that bloomed across her face. 

\--- 

Though usually, he would rush headfirst into an attack, Gawain was starting to realise that particular tactic did not seem to work well with the elusive, complex character that was Lancelot. Hence, he headed for one of the supplies tents. There, untouched in weeks but tucked carefully under the waxed cloth, stood a crate full of all the books Fey had been able to salvage.

The volume he unearthed suggested, first and foremost, the roses – which was. Problematic. Even if he could get his hands on some — and it would probably be a longer ride than he could leave the camp unprotected for — it immediately stroke him as… unfitting. Those flowers were — bold, and outspoken, and a statement for all to see. It is not that Gawain did not want his message to get across — he just did not think that the Ashman would appreciate such a blunt approach. It certainly bore no fruit so far, he admitted with a sigh. 

Flipping through the pages of the book, Gawain felt his unease grow. Even if he ignored the language — suitably flowery — the tome clearly was written with a slightly different reader in mind. Or rather, the reader was alright — it was expected of a knight to be well-versed in languages, after all, including that of flowers. But the subject of his heart’s desires — oh Hidden, the book was rubbing off on him already — was far from the delicate maiden assumed by the authors.

At the paragraph describing sunflowers, Gawain’s interest briefly piqued — adoration and dedication seemed like just the right things to declare — but then he took time to actually picture the scene: the Ashman, in his black cloak, weeping marks trailing down the ghostly pale skin, clutching an obscenely cheerful flower. He had a pretty clear impression of what Lancelot’s reaction would be like, and the idea made him shudder.

The mention of pure thoughts has sealed the deal for the Fey — it was far too late for that, had been since the first time he had seen Lancelot wield a sword — and Gawain slammed the book close. Tapping his fingers on the richly illustrated cover, the knight made a decision to forego the the font of knowledge and follow his own hunch.

It would still require a short foray into the woods, but, thankfully, Gringolet was one of the swiftest mounts to grace the earth, and soon the Green Knight was back to the camp. After a cursory glance around to make sure nothing was going up in flames right at that moment, Gawain caught sight of the familiar dark-clad figure — strutting over in the direction of the training grounds. It was essential to intercept him fast — once Lancelot started something, he got incredibly irritated at being interrupted.

Gawain swung over the saddle in one motion, ran a hand through his hair, and hurried over, pretending not to hurry at all.

He caught up with the man and Lancelot cast him a look, before nodding curtly in a wordless greeting and looking away. The expression on his face was as stoic as ever, even though Gawain fancied the idea there was a slight curl to his lips — he just tried to hide it. Not this time, good sir, Gawain thought merrily, and thrust the flowers into Lancelot’s arms, making the man stop dead in his tracks.

“Is this heather,” Lancelot clarified flatly, slightly tilting his head to examine the gift.

“Yes,” the knight confirmed, thrumming with excitement. Here was the first step. He could do it — properly.

He watched impatiently as the Ashman inspected the flowers, touching the fragile petals with a tip of his finger. They fluttered in the light August breeze, shifting colours from steely grey to light blue. It somewhat reminded the man’s eyes, if you asked Gawain.

“And cornflowers.”

Gawain nodded, not letting the man’s tone waver his confidence. Lancelot looked up at him, and there — those sharp light eyes that made the knight’s throat go dry.

“Why?”

Alright, it was not going exactly the way he’d imagined. However, he was supposed to let the gift speak for him — to not scare the man away with his advances. Still, it seemed like the ancient, dust-covered practice needed to be shaken a bit.

“Just thought you might enjoy them,” the knight shrugged, feigning nonchalance.

“You do know they are poisonous?” Lancelot’s eyes narrowed with suspicion, as he fiddled with the bouquet, slender fingers caressing the delicate blooms.

“Are they to your liking or not?” Gawain asked, desperate.

The Ashman’s face pinched, as he stared at the man as if trying to figure out the right answer. A slight frown marred his features.

“I can make something out of them,” he offered cautiously.

“That’s not what I meant,” the knight gritted out, ignoring the first signs of an impending headache.

“Then what did you mean?” Lancelot demanded, and by the way his lips thinned and he tilted his chin, Gawain knew the man was starting to get frustrated. That never ended well, and so it was time to fall back — he still had two chances to advance.

“As I said, you can just find delight in them — you don’t have to find use for something to like it,” at the perplexed look on Lancelot’s face, he admitted the plan was a failure and made a step back. “Listen, if you really do not like them — just give them to someone else.” 

Turning around, the knight departed with as much dignity as he could muster, finding consolation in the fact that at least there was no one to witness his defeat.

Only when he got back to the village, did Gawain realise he had just told Lancelot to give someone else flowers that any more or less knowledgeable Fey would interpret as a love confession.

\--- 

“Alright, wait, so he didn’t immediately jump on you…”

“Pym, it is worse. I don’t think he understood what I meant — and so I basically gave him the means to declare his love for someone without even realising it.”

“Ah! Ah. Oh, oh-ho-ho, that’s not good… Gawain, you are one of the brightest men I know when it comes to strategy, and please keep it in mind when you hear what I say — but you are a damned fool.”

“… I guess I can't argue with that.”

They sat in silence for a moment — Pym with a chin rested on her folded palms, looking over at Gawain, who was across the table, nursing a cup of tea in one large hand, head propped in another, as he stared at nothing. It was midnight, and the crickets were chirping in the darkness outside her tent.

“Alright,” she broke the silence. “But it was just the first thing to try. Maybe you just need to use words now.”

“Poetry?” Gawain sighed.

“Poetry,” Pym confirmed.

\--- 

The thing was, Gawain loved poetry. And singing, and music, and — basically everything that could make the world meaningful again, restore that invisible thread that tethered him to the wind and the sun, when everything started to dim under the dirty film of mundane camp life.

It was just that he could not be sure his hands were suited for a quill anymore, after holding only the sword for years. The last time he had tinkered with verses was when he had been — fifteen, probably, and madly in love, no matter how innocent, naive, and greedy that love had been. He had only just gotten a taste of that complicated, wonderful affair with another person when you both know you are moving towards each other already, but decide you might as well do it in the loveliest way possible.

And then the world had just crashed down around them, and he’d been too busy holding one burning roof after another to give the rest of the Fey a chance to get out. There had been no time left for dances, and poems, and all the things gentle — just some trenchant lines he cut into the wooden logs with a knife, just some crossing the room in a straight line to claw at someone’s body and remind each other you were still alive. It had been like that for so long — until Lancelot stumbled back into a camp, and Gawain had found himself with a ruffled rook of a man to tame. 

Half-heartedly, he considered reciting something written by a bard, but it did not feel right. Lancelot deserved to hear the words that were only ever meant for him.

But it was so late in the night it was nearly morning, and his eyes stung as he kept staring at the candle — so he blew it out and laid in his bed, still and silent; yet sleep evaded him. 

\---

At dawn, he came to Lancelot’s tent to ask him about leading another scout foray into the Ice King’s territory, but the man was not there. Judging by his neatly made bed, hadn’t been in a while, Gawain concluded, his weary eyes roaming the room out of habit without really focusing — but then they fell on a bright blotch of blue, and immediately, the world sharpened.

There, in a wooden jug, stood the heather and cornflowers.

When the knight left the tent, his steps were lighter, and he wore a radiant smile that made everyone who saw him answer it with one of their own. With his soul singing, he wondered to the training grounds and leaned against a stone fence to watch Lancelot play with the trainees like a smug cat would with fretting little mice. The difference being that the man’s filigree work with a blade ensured there was not a nick or a bruise more than needed to keep them on their toes. The young Fey huffed and puffed, but it was also undeniable how they progressed in leaps and bounds under the watchful eye of the former Monk.

However, the spectacle only lasted a handful of minutes, before the Ashman noticed him and straightened, a picture of proud competence that made Gawain a bit light-headed. With a slight smirk, Lancelot crooked the fingers of his outstretched arm, motioning for the knight to join them. Never one to back down from a challenge, Gawain leapt over the fence nimbly and unsheathed his sword in one fluid motion. They were evenly matched in a real fight, and in front of others, the Ash fey fought almost as ferociously, because he would have rather died than admitted someone was better at that than him.

But Gawain knew this was not the reason Lancelot obsessed over bringing him down every time they sparred. It was about the confidence that he could protect himself; about the trust it took for Gawain to bare his throat to the man. It hardly did any damage to the Green Knight’s reputation to occasionally lose a fight to the former Weeping Monk — if anything, it kept the other Fey from believing he was immortal, which he rather appreciated — but for Lancelot’s restless, tortured mind it was a much-needed guarantee of safety.

And so, he let himself be a tad too complacent with a feint, and promptly ended up down on a knee, a blade at his throat — and a jubilant smile on Lancelot’s face; it was the latter that made his heart leap. There were some cheers from the trainees — albeit few — and he could see the surprise colour his worthy opponent’s face.

“Well, I wanted to send _you_ to the fields, but it seems time away from the dusty scrolls might do me some good,” the knight observed airily; Lancelot opened his mouth to protest, but Gawain raised a hand and shook his head, eyes turning serious and voice lowering. “Stay. Teach them.”

The Ashman looked conflicted, but then sheathed his sword and nodded. His eyes lingered on the knight, but then he seemed to regain his composure, and turned around to call out for one of the boys — in that low, husky voice, that made Gawain’s knees week — and by name, always addressing everyone by their name. Shaking his head with fondness, the knight got off the ground and made his way back, firmly pushing down the desire to hang around a bit more.

However, when he returned to join the war council, the memories of their fight kept flashing in front of Gawain’s eyes, tugging at every string inside him until he could no longer drown out the sound. With a strained, hurried apology, he snatched the first scroll that was not immediately in use and walked out.

His feet carried him to the bank of the small lake, where the knight dropped on the ground, flipped the scroll around and spread it out, in haste to scratch the words before they overflowed him. The lines were all jumbled, but he could not have cared less — as long as they conveyed what he needed to say.

… As he caught the last word by its tail and pinned it to the paper with a jab of a quill, the Fey sat in a slight daze for a moment. This feeling, it was… it was as intense as physical pleasure — when you wrote not because you decided to do so, but because you couldn’t _not_ do it.

Biting the tip of the quill feather, Gawain looked across the water, a small smile tugging at the corner of the knight’s mouth despite the wistful look in his eyes. 

\---

Lancelot came back to his tent well into the evening, quite worn out by the trainees, who had seemed to take the Green Knight’s defeat as a personal offence and had done their best to avenge him. Or maybe they had just taken to heart his words about obeying the Ashman.

Smiling slightly, Lancelot bit on a glove to tug it off, but as his eyes drifted to the flowers, he faltered. There was a small piece of parchment next to the jug.

When he came closer with careful steps, as if it could lash out — who knew, might contain a spell, saw plenty of those in Merlin’s quarters — Lancelot caught a scent drifting off the paper and reached out before he could think better of it. He was sure he recognised it, but maybe he was wrong — his senses mostly told him what kind of a creature he hunted, and fine details were harder to distinguish.

At least the parchment did not strike him with lighting — or so he thought before his eyes locked on the words.

I neither die, nor live, nor I get well,

I do not feel my suffering, though it is great,

since I cannot tell the future of his love,

whether I shall have it, or when,

for in him is all the pity

which can raise me up or make me fall.

I am pleased when he maddens me

when he makes me stand with open mouth staring,

I am pleased when he laughs at me,

or makes a fool of me to my face, or my back;

for after this bad the good will come

swiftly, if such is his pleasure. 

\---

“So? How did it go?”

“Mm?”

“The poetry, Gawain, how did it go?”

“… Well. I think it went well. I hope.”

Pym waited for a bit for him to continue, but Gawain’s eyes were glazed over with sleep. He was still smiling, she noticed.

“Oh, you poor, brave fool,” the girl sighed softly and pulled a quilt over him.

\--- 

Inspired, Gawain proceeded to the last step, but that was when he hit the wall. 

The courting rituals he knew of from the stories swapped around the campfire were mostly invented to demonstrate the wealth or, for the lack of a more delicate word, ability to bear a child, of which he had none. Besides, the knight did not think that it would conquer the former Weeping Monk, anyway.

Though there was one story that drew his attention — the custom of gifting your beloved a dagger. It seemed like a fitting choice for two warriors, but as Gawain sat on the riverbank, twirling the blade in his hands with a pensive look, he could not help a frown.

It was, without a doubt, exquisite work. The razor-sharp edge, the perfectly balanced weight, the subtle hint of an engraving depicting the delicate vines — truly, it was a masterpiece, and any Fey fighter would be delighted with such a gift. 

But Lancelot wasn’t just a fighter.

They all knew him as a relentless, incredibly dangerous — brilliant, Gawain added to himself — swordsman and archer; though he has demonstrated on the occasion that being unarmed barely slowed him down — his ability to use the surrounding to his advantage was simply uncanny. But as the days went by, Gawain got to see more and more of his gentler side.

The first he noticed was gentle care Lancelot demonstrated to his beast of a horse — and every other animal he encountered, from dogs to ravens; it was as if the man found refuge in their silent, non-judgmental company.

As the weeks passed, though, he acquired a different kind of allies. Gawain remembered from their conversation in the kitchens how Lancelot seemed to flare up at the mention of the children — but only here, in the relative safety of the camp, could he really see how the man adored them. He was always listening to their words with perfect seriousness, softening every gesture to make sure he did not accidentally hurt or scare them. Timid at first, they’d soon warmed up and started trailing after the man like ducklings.

And, of course, there was the way Lancelot listened to the songs and tales Fey regaled each other with — this greedy attention that he tried to hide as if it was a sin to enjoy an elegant phrase, but it seeped anyway into his shining eyes, his awed features. 

Lancelot might have been their greatest warrior, but there was so much more to him. The dagger, no matter how beautiful, would not reflect that; but Gawain was out of ideas. This morning, he’d glanced briefly at the old family ring laying on his desk, but — not yet.

The Ashman found him like that — lost in thought and, to be honest, a fair share of daydreaming. Approaching slowly, with deliberately audible steps, Lancelot stood a couple of steps away and spoke quietly. 

“They are looking for you.”

“The council?” Gawain clarified and scoffed when the Ashman nodded. “Let them look for a bit more.”

If there was an emergency, he would have been up and on his way in a flash – but there was no urgency in Lancelot’s movements, and he trusted his judgement; most likely, the elders just wanted to discuss the possible alliance which involved marrying Nimue, which always ended up with him losing his temper.

He did not need to explain it to the man – all of that Lancelot already knew — and could just keep peering at the glimmering surface of the water. The Ashman’s eyes followed his, sweeping over the river, but did not linger; the man looked back down and sank to the ground next to the knight, graceful as ever.

“What are you doing here?” he asked in the same low voice, not looking away from the stem of grass he was twisting into knots.

Thinking about how to best persuade you to drop that blade of grass and sit on my lap instead, Gawain thought, but, being a chivalrous — damn it — man, did not say. Instead, he went with the next best thing — the reason why he kept straying to the river.

“It’s peaceful here, near the water. Reminds me of home.”

Lancelot hummed, and while for the others it would have been merely a polite, but disinterested gesture, Gawain knew that tone meant the man was listening intently. And so the knight continued, a smile growing across his face as he spoke.

“We used to go fishing a lot, and Pym always trailed along, even though she could not stand the worms. Unlike Nimue — the girl was a spitfire; if you told her that she couldn’t do something, she would bust a gut to prove you wrong.”

He trailed off, smiling fondly at the memories, and did not expect Lancelot to say anything, but the man surprised him again.

“Were you close?” the Ashman asked, and there was such intensity in his eyes, that Gawain immediately knew why he was asking that question — but it would not change his response.

“They were like sisters to me,” the knight admitted without batting an eye, and Lancelot appeared slightly stunned at the ease with which he says that. “Still are. I would die for them.”

Fear flashed over Lancelot’s face, and he immediately felt guilty for distressing the man — that was not his intention, he just sometimes got fierce about things, and now Lancelot was looking at him with those knitted brows…

“I’d rather you didn’t,” he blurted out and looked as startled as Gawain at the words that had left his mouth. His expression went through a dizzyingly fast succession of changes, and settled on the resigned determination.

“I know I have no right to ask anything of you, but — you’re an admirable leader — and it would be a great loss for — for the Fey.”

An admirable leader, Gawain repeated to himself, just what I wanted you to see me like — but at the Ashman’s lost look, he did not have the heart to say anything, and simply nodded.

“Will do my best. And you do remember you’re the Fey, too, right? I distantly recall a rather dramatic revelation of that particular fact.”

He was greatly, greatly enjoying the blush that spread over the Ashman’s cheeks at the reminder. It had taken him weeks of gently bullying Lancelot into talking about their first violent encounters, and the man had resisted like a wild cat — but in the end, Gawain’s stubbornness had won, and, joke by joke, they had cleared that debris from their minds.

“It’s a decent dagger you have there,” Lancelot said with the despair of a drowning man, and Gawain could not help an amused snort — which earned him a glare — but acceded and let the conversation be steered into safer waters.

Well, safer — if one could ignore the fact that the dagger was supposed to be a courting gift.

Ah, well.

“You like it? Take it.”

“What?” Lancelot asked incredulously, “You would just give it to me?”

He looked so confused, his belligerent little rook, that Gawain could not fight back the smile. 

“You know,” he said slowly, recalling something, “my grandfather always said that we should do a good deed and throw it in the water.”

Lancelot was silent for a little, thinking it over.

“He sounds wise,” he decided at last.

“Oh, that he was — and also the most bleeding heart hunter you could ever imagine. Once, he brought an injured owl home, and it just — stayed, if you will. Which was fine — but then one day it fell into the bag of flour…”

As he told the story, Lancelot’s smile was shy but warm, and for the first time, Gawain thought that maybe this foolish affair might actually work out. 

The knife was lying, forgotten, on the ground between them, as the men got lost in conversation, and even the trees seemed to bent lower to listen in.

\--- 

But the warm days never lasted for long.

He swept through the camp, following the trail of whispers. Gawain had fought valiantly, they said; he had taken the attacker’s head off in one clean strike before collapsing. Such an impressive fight — the provisions were secure — Paladin bastards would remember that one for long — but I heard the wound is bad — he is the Green Knight, no one can take him down — but what if — who would take over if he dies — who is there to protect them now — and Lancelot snapped.

What did it all matter if the man was dying. 

Whispers led him to the tent where Gawain had been taken. Pushing everyone aside, the former Weeping Monk strode over in large steps, his cloak flapping like the rook wings, and fell on his knees next to the Fey knight. 

He was deathly pale, a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead, and what crude bandages they had managed to wrap around his stomach on the way from the fields were soaked through with viscous, foul-smelling blood.

"Will he live?" he asked with such despair, that the warriors glanced at one another, but said nothing, heeding the warning glance from Pym. 

"He is not getting worse," she hastened to reassure him, and the way his shoulders loosened made guilt wash over the redhead because her next words were, "but he also won’t get better — the blade was poisoned, and his body keeps it at bay for now, but it’s a standstill – for now.”

There was a beat of silence as Lancelot's wild eyes roamed the knight's pale face, his hands clenching into fists helplessly where he seemed to want to reach out for the man, but kept cutting the motion short. 

Then Lancelot opened his mouth, and the voice that came out was so terrifyingly dark, Pym blanched and took a step back. 

"Out,” he rasped, and, when the Fey warriors didn't move, yelled. "I said, get out!" 

The Fey backed down, exchanging looks, but when Pym motioned at them impatiently, they finally retreated, letting the cloth fall over the entrance and cut the three Fey from the rest of the world. 

Lancelot did not move his eyes from Gawain's face; he did not even seem to be blinking, though his chest heaved for breaths.

"Why are you still here?" he asked her quietly without turning, that dark undertone still staining his voice; but it lacked the ferocity from just a moment ago, and Pym, admonishing herself for cowardice, moved. 

"Because you are not the only one here who is his friend," she said firmly and fetched the bottles from their straw beds in the heavy little chest that stood in the corner of the tent. "But I am the only one who can at least try to heal him." 

I just need to find the right antidote, she thought. Please, old Gods, just let me find the right one. 

But Gods were not done with them for today, it seemed, and the right bottle turned out empty. The healer was so busy trying to come up with a suitable replacement made out of what they had, she almost missed the Ashman's words when he spoke again.

"That… might not be true,” Lancelot muttered, not looking at her.

"What?" She bit out sharply, a hysterical laugh bubbling out of her. "Polly is in another camp, Merlin is fuck knows where, it's only me here — or what are you saying, that all this time you could just heal people?" 

The Ashman did not reply, and Pym felt pure, blinding fury raise in her that she had not felt even when he had first come into the camp, eyes weeping but dry and face bloodied but proud. She remembered staring at his hands and not understanding how they could have been so pale and soft when surely they should have been stained with blood for all to see. 

"Are you fucking kidding me?" she said flatly. 

"I only recently figured it out," Lancelot snapped, defending himself, voice sharp, but his eyes were wide, and a fine tremble ran through his hands, quickly followed by another. "It's small things, and it doesn't work half the time, and I… I didn't want to give a promise I wouldn't be able to keep." 

The memory of Nimue flashed through the healer's mind, her friend kneeling next to Dof, asking for the blessing — and only receiving silence in answer. The way she slumped down, like a broken, useless thing. The way Pym's heart seized in her chest, and never quite returned to the same rhythm. 

She could not blame him for wanting to avoid that. 

But it seemed that the Monk had more courage than that — he peeled off the bandages to take a look at the wound and paled, as blackened edges, slowly oozing poison, became visible. He sniffed the air, but the bitter taste that made him gag was unfamiliar – he never encountered that poison before, did not know where to start. His healing experiments mostly covered children’s skinned knees and thorns in dogs’ paws; he just recently progressed to cutting himself and making it disappear before anyone could notice. With such high stakes, with all the responsibility and little skill, it was all too easy for panic to overwhelm him.

"Gawain," he murmured, "Gawain, I am so sorry, I…" he trailed off with a shuddering gasp and looked away, biting at his knuckles and rocking slightly back and forth. 

It was impossible to watch. He might have deserved all the punishment in the world, and Pym, she might have been uncaring with her words and quick to judge to the point of it coming off as cruelty, but she could never have harboured that revenge for long. Leave it to the Red Spear, leave it to Merlin — to all those legendary figures; Pym was just a young healer girl, and so she put her hand on Lancelot's shoulder and spoke. 

"He is going to make it,” she said with confidence she did not allow herself not to feel. "Gawain is stronger than all of us together, and if he made it out of those wretched kitchens, then Hidden must favour him." 

And if Hidden did not, she thought darkly, clutching the silver pendant in her pocket so tight the edges bit into her palms, there were other gods. 

Lancelot looked at her mutely, and for a moment she feared he had not heard her at all, but then the man shook his head and his eyes snapped back into focus. 

"I am going to try," he said, and his whole face shifted from devastated to determined so fast Pym felt a bit queasy – or perhaps it was from watching her friend lie injured and unresponsive. 

"Do you want me to… turn around or something?" she asked lamely, wringing her hands in the apron. 

"It's doing sorcery, not pissing on the roadside," Lancelot grumbled, and he must have been truly off-balance to say something like that — he was not usually one for crude remarks. 

Not that Pym was bothered. One did not survive the Raider's ship without developing a healthy amount of tolerance to such matters. 

"I just thought you might be nervous," she still explained primly, and he shot her a dirty look as if asking why on earth wouldn't he be. 

There was no time to waste bickering, though. 

With a shuddering sigh, Lancelot pulled himself together. He put his hands over the wound, letting them hover for a moment just above the surface before pressing them down, oily blood immediately clinging to his skin.

It was like he could feel the poison eat at Gawain's insides, and it was nauseating, but Lancelot steadied himself and focused on that strange feeling inside, that, if untangled correctly, could manifest in small miracles. He closed his eyes, and pulled at the source, weaving the strands of magic together and pushing them towards the wound.

Nothing happened. The knight’s face was just as drawn and pale, skin as cold, breathing as shallow as before. The Ashman felt as if the world tilted around him.

Pym clasped his shoulder tightly, and the herbal scent that wafted from the tiny hand that dug painfully into his bone brought him back to the ground. 

Gritting his teeth, he kept his eyes open and willed for the poison to be purged from the knight’s blood, for the edges of the wound to close. It did not seem to work either, and Lancelot breaths came in short pants at exertion and fear, but he forced himself to inhale slowly and tried to think. The magic was there, it just needed the right way – needed a clear image of what to do.

He called forth the memory of what if had felt like to recover from poison, and fed that memory, every gory detail, to the silent thrumming force in his fingertips. 

Gawain's body arched off the bed, twisting and seizing, but he kept his hands on the wound, and Pym gasped, almost whimpered, but stayed by his side. 

He could not see anything, darkness eating at the edges of his vision, black circles floating and pulsating in front of his eyes even as he tried to blink them away. It felt like something inside Gawain, some answering force of his own, picked up on the threads – as if it just needed a nudge – but he could not risk letting it go, and kept the flow as steady as he could.

“Lancelot,” she whispered, clinging to his shoulder, “Lancelot, is it working?”

“You tell me, I can’t see anything,” he gritted out through clenched teeth. 

“What?” she startled, but then shifted, bending over to look. “I think– I think it is working”.

“What… what does it look like?”

She swallowed thickly and described in the cut-off, strained phrases how the black viscous liquid oozed out of the torn flesh; how the edges of the wound slowly knitted together; and finally, how the swelling subsided.

Just as she said the last word, Lancelot let out a strained groan and crumbled, listing to the side. Pym barely managed to catch him and hissed as the dead weight in her arms turned out to be too much — but at least she softened the fall.

“Lancelot? Lancelot!” she cried out in panic, caught in between clutching at his shoulders and trying to twist from under him.

“‘S alright, just need to–lie down…” the Ashman mumbled, staring blindly to the ceiling, his throat jerking as he gulped for air.

Pym just about scrambled up to rush to the bottles, when he caught her wrist, and she obliged, even though his cold fingers almost immediately slipped and his hand fell to the ground.

“Tell him,” he groaned, “that I accept his courtship.”

And with that, Lancelot passed out.

\--- 

When Gawain woke up, Lancelot was asleep next to him.

In a silent surprise, the knight peered over at the black-clad figure slumped against the wall of the tent.

“Did he sneak back again?” he heard the familiar voice and turned his head to see Pym stand in the entrance, wiping her hands on the rug that reeked of herbs and alcohol.

“I… suppose?” the knight frowned. “What happened? Is he alright?”

The redhead shot him a look that clearly said that he was in no position to ask such questions — and while Gawain would normally agree, given that he was on a healer’s bed, he could not feel any pain in his body.

“He is just exhausted. Probably from all the dramatic revelations – must be draining, even if he has a knack for it — but also because he saved your life.”

“Saved my life?” Gawain parroted, feeling even more lost after such an explanation. Lancelot was not a part of their group this time — did he come later? What happened?

“Yes,” Pym nodded, and was about to add something, but then visibly changed her mind. “And not only that. You should talk to him about it. He is probably already awake — yes, Lancelot, I can see your eyelids flutter — honestly — so I will let you two talk.”

“Not even going to check the bandages?” Gawain asked disbelievingly, not used to the healer relenting so readily.

Pym’s eyes shifted to the man feigning sleep in the corner, as the girl put the rag down.

“It scarred already during the night, so I don’t need to. Besides, I'm sure he did everything right,” she said simply and walked out.

For a moment, all was silent, as Gawain tried to digest the situation — and decipher the cryptic messages, but then he was distracted by a soft rustle of fabric as Lancelot got to his feet and walked over.

His eyes were trained on the knight, but he did not come closer, lingering a couple of steps away from the bed. They looked at each other — Lancelot with poorly concealed anxiousness and Gawain with cautious optimism. The knight waited, wondering to himself why the man was looking at him like that, as if he was a fragile canvas Lancelot just put the last drop of paint on and now could not quite believe that it came from under his hands.

Ah, Gawain realised, might be something to do with saving his life. Must have been quite bad, if he was so shaken – but then why did not he feel anything?

When it became clear that the Ashman was content to maintain the silence — little surprise here — Gawain slowly sat up, mindful of his alleged injuries. He ran his fingers over the bandages, but still could not find anything wrong, and as he looked up again, Lancelot’s shoulders seemed to lose a fraction of the tension.

Grinning, the Green Knight patted the bed invitingly.

“I don’t yet know what happened, but I feel better than I did in months. So enough with fretting and hovering.”

At that, Lancelot finally deigned to sit down, primly straightening the wrinkle in the dark fabric of his sleeve. Gawain allowed him a moment, content with just sitting side by side, taking in the softness of his pale skin, and the tender shadows the man’s long eyelashes cast on his cheeks, but then he just could not wait any longer.

“So how come you were the one to save my hide? Far be it from me to doubt your talents — but this time you were not even there. Or did you learn how to fly?”

It was supposed to be a joke, but as Lancelot’s lips did not even twitch, and Gawain’s stomach dropped at the guilty look on his face. What could have happened?

“Something like that,” the Ashman muttered, wringing his hands. “I healed you — I can heal people now.”

It took a second for Gawain to grasp, but since he had witnessed that fog which Nimue summoned at the mill, his willingness to believe in miracles increased substantially. Waking up after being tortured to death had dealt his scepticism the final blow, and now he just – let it happen. Might as well — his life was already weird enough.

Still. Healing people at will.

“Well, that’s indeed a dramatic revelation; Pym was not exaggerating, for once,” he mused, reaching for his armour, that lay on the ground, already cleaned – Percival must have come to see him, as well, then. He got up and tugged it on, and Lancelot followed, nimble fingers already flying up to help with the laces – it became such a routine when they worked together, that the Ashman did not even need to think about it.

“Why weren’t you wearing it?” Gawain heard him ask, and winced.

“I had to mend it from the previous fight – and then the new group of paladins came in when we did not expect them.”

“I should have been there,” Lancelot said with quiet anger, “I would have heard them, you know I would, and I could have protected you…”

He broke off when Gawain turned around and caught his fists – and when did that happen — and wrapped his own hands – warm, thank gods, warm – around them. Scanning the Ashman’s face, Gawain hummed.

“So those were not all the revelations, were they?” he wondered quietly, and Lancelot’s jaw clenched, but he nodded abruptly.

“I accepted your courtship.”

Now, Gawain was speechless.

“You accepted,” he repeated dumbly, and the Ashman shifted, lifting his chin defiantly. His soot-streaked eyes were bright and clear, and astounded the knight just as every time he saw them — but wait, he could not get side-tracked again. He — he had thought the man had not even realised, reconciled himself with the idea of never getting an answer...

“So you knew,” Gawain said disbelievingly, and Ashman nodded tersely. “For how long?”

“I started to suspect something at the flowers,” Lancelot confessed. “And at the poetry, I was almost certain.”

“Then why…”

“Didn't I say anything?” he shrugged. “To be honest, I am really bored here. And to watch you struggle was entertaining.”

I will show you entertaining, Gawain thought with vicious conviction. 

“I renounce my courtship,” the knight declared with a solemnity suitable for an occasion. 

“What?” it satisfied him immensely to see the usually unflappable Lancelot gape at him.

“Otherwise, it would surely be — ill-mannered of me — to murder my beloved.”

Without further ado, he tackled the Ashman to the ground. The Fey rolled around, struggling like children, laughing and swearing, until finally, Gawain came out on top. 

It had never felt that wonderful to surrender, the Ashman thought; but then, it was the first time being caught bore the promise of something better. Something he would have chased himself. 

“Beloved?” Lancelot asked quietly. 

“Beloved,” Gawain nodded, and the Ashman sighed happily, pressing his forehead against the knight’s shoulder. 

They sat in silence — the most content, blessed silence any of them had ever had; the one filled with warm caresses and promises unspoken, but understood all the same. 

Still, there was one thing left to settle. 

“Gawain?” Lancelot prompted. 

“Yes?” the knight perked up. 

“I am here now; take off the armour. Give me a proper embrace, oh honourable and courteous champion.”

“Lancelot,” Gawain said lightly, conspiratorially, as he tightened his arms around the man, “I have wasted all of my honour on this courting nonsense — so now you will only get to see the wicked parts.” 

I can't wait, Lancelot thought, hiding a smile in the hollow of his lover's neck. 

**Author's Note:**

> It was supposed to be a drabble in Earthly Things and then it just completely went out of control.  
> The poem is a slightly adapted version of Cercamon's [Quant l'aura doussa s'amarzis](http://www.trobar.org/troubadours/cercamon/) (When the sweet air turns bitter).  
> The owl episode Gawain mentions has really happened.  
> And yes, I did make him cite Mulaney.


End file.
